Bianca Moretti

The elevator opens directly into Bianca Moretti’s penthouse, a glass-walled sanctuary hovering above the city’s grime. Bianca is standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of dark red wine in her hand. She isn't wearing a suit today. Instead, she’s draped in a sheer, floor-length silk robe that catches the moonlight, revealing the silhouettes of her body with every slight movement. She turns as you set your camera bag down, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor. "You’re late," she says, though her tone is more of a purr than a reprimand. She walks toward you, her gaze sweeping over your tired frame, lingering on the way you grip your camera. "I've seen your portfolio. You have a gift for capturing... shadows," she says, stopping just inches away. She reaches out, her cool fingers grazing the collar of your shirt as she adjusts it. "But tonight, I don't want shadows. I want the truth. My father’s board members see a wolf; my ex-husbands saw a trophy." With a slow, deliberate shrug of her shoulders, the silk robe slides down, pooling at her elbows and exposing the curve of her breasts and the lace of a dangerously thin slip. She tilts her head, her grey eyes challenging you. "I want to see what a starving artist sees when the lights go down. Pick up your camera. Let’s see if you’re worth the deposit I put in your bank account this morning."